Going Under
by SirusPolaris
Summary: After his ‘death’ on Mars, Spike Spiegel absently wanders the universe, searching to fill the emptiness that he left behind-- the part of him that died along with his Syndicate life. Pre-Bebop. R
1. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

*~A/N~*. . . Hahah! Take that, suckas! I'm back, with a new story (finally). This is the first time I've posted a story without finishing the entire thing first, so think of this as a test-run for other upcoming fics. Reviews are welcome! Flames are welcome! Hell, just give me feedback!!!!  
  
*~SUMMARY~* . . . After his 'death' on Mars, Spike Spiegel absently wanders the universe, searching to fill the emptiness that he left behind-- the part of him that died along with his Syndicate life.  
  
*~DISCLAIMER~* . . . I do not own Cowboy Bebop. I don't even own the computer this story is saved on. Get over it.  
  
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Smoke Gets In Your Eyes  
  
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She wasn't coming.  
  
Cool raindrops pattered endlessly around him, drumming on the pavement and kissing his face bitterly as he lifted it skyward. They fell drearily, plummeting from the heavens and into his open eyes, collecting on his lashes and traveling down his pale cheeks like crystalline tears.  
  
She wasn't coming.  
  
Everything in his vision seemed to melt, painfully blurring the colorless world further until it was beyond recognition. 'Pitter-patter pitter-patter' went the rain as it drizzled down, dragging with it pieces of the sky and crushing them against the ground. The cool droplets danced as they hit, shattering brilliantly before flowing away, forgotten.  
  
The smell was enough to choke him, that thick stench of rain. It clouded his senses and numbed his lungs when he breathed. In, out. In, out. Bittersweet, slightly stale and twisted painfully with the brittle chill of the air.  
  
He was so heavy, his clothes weighted with rainwater, her face a pastel picture intense in his mind. A stunning woman with a sad smile.  
  
His heart clenched painfully.  
  
The icy puddles around his feet rapidly collected the water, ripples defacing the mirrored surfaces as the raindrops dropped from his clothes and face.  
  
Pitter-patter pitter-patter.  
  
He exhaled a broken sigh as he pushed himself away from the damp wall, slipping his hands into his soaked coat pockets and turning to leave. He hesitated for only the slightest moment, his eyes shadowed and his face stoic, listening to the soft percussion of the rain.  
  
Something flowed from him in that moment; it no longer hurt to breathe. Something left his veins and flowed from his fingers and face, trapped in the tiny confines of raindrops and smashed against the ground. He was different. Empty.  
  
A single word formed on his thin lips as his downcast gaze deadened callously, a hoarsely whispered vow to the ever-weeping sky.  
  
"Julia. . ."  
  
Roses in a puddle. Flashes of gold from the corner of his eye. A smoldering cigarette on the damp asphalt. Pitter-patter pitter-patter.  
  
She wasn't coming.  
  
He would feel no more.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The sky of Mars was endless, marred with blurry rain clouds and choked with rainwater. A sleek ship cut swiftly through the ominous atmosphere, its faded red paint clearly defined against the overcast sky. It seemed out of place, a mechanical bird flailing against the rising storm.  
  
The rainfall was coming down in sheets now, cold water throwing itself angrily at the MONO-racer's exterior and streaking away in rivulets. Droplets smashed into the windshield, forcing the ship to travel virtually blind.  
  
It seemed to remind him that he really didn't like the rain. She always did, she said the rhythm of the water was relaxing. She enjoyed the clean feeling in the air, the tension in the air during a storm, but most of all the smell. She had once suggested it must have been the scent of heaven. He had nodded dumbly, enjoying the sound of her voice.  
  
But in truth, he had always loathed rain. It was always so goddamn cold, no matter what the season, and the water got everywhere; in your shoes, it drenched your clothes, added dead weight to everything and always seemed miserable. The rain always radiated such a melancholy mood, lonely and depressing. . .  
  
How appropriate that it would rain today.  
  
A little added weight on the controls and the racer's long nose turned upwards at a sharp angle. Its engines roared into the rain as the jets kicked in and the Swordfish II lurched higher, shooting off towards the blacker darkness of space.  
  
The MONO-racer curved gracefully as it sped away from Mars, its pilot crushing the steering mechanisms as he sought more speed. The ship groaned slightly under the strain, the empty air of outer space lashing violently against its body as it cruised hazardously onward.  
  
His fingers were locked in a slippery grip on the controls, sticky with blood. How much of it was his and how much of it was theirs? His clothing, his skin reeked of death and gunpowder and rain, so overwhelmingly strong that it thickened the air in the cockpit. Oxygen fed into the ship soon became contaminated by the sickening stench. It became difficult to think.  
  
To breathe.  
  
He had half a mind to crash the ship into something, send it spiraling back down into the pavement-- give himself a mercifully quick end. Anything would be better than the agonizingly slow memories that were replaying over and over in his head. However, something refused to let him carry out his gruesome intentions. . . her sad face in his mind's eye.  
  
Away. Have to get away.  
  
The monotone gray rain clouds dissipated and gravity thinned as the ship cruised upward, giving way to the empty stillness of the cosmos. The water froze in horizontal icicles from the wings in the unbearably cold vacuum, glazing the off-red metal casing in a thin sheet of glass-like ice.  
  
Everything was cold, and the only sounds to be heard were the stressed roar of the jets and the own merciless beating of his heart as it pounded in his ears.  
  
This whole thing just didn't feel right. It simply couldn't be over now. He wouldn't allow himself to believe that this was the way things would end. He wasn't naïve enough to think that all stories had fairytale endings, but nothing in this escape seemed final enough to be the end. He must still be asleep, still dreaming.  
  
Stars flashed over the windshield of the cockpit, reality becoming a blur streaked with white lights as the Swordfish zoomed by at alarming speeds. His knuckles turned white under the pressure he applied, his fingernails digging into the controls with something akin to ire. It was hard to tell, he felt completely numb.  
  
She wouldn't leave. He couldn't figure her out. She loved him, she *loved* him, and yet she wouldn't leave. Was she afraid? Afraid of the Syndicate? Afraid they would kill her?  
  
What was keeping her from him?  
  
He would escape to a better life, safer and far away from the possessive Syndicate mafia. Didn't she know he wanted to build this new life with her, for her? How did she expect him to live while she held his heart so far out of reach? He couldn't. He couldn't live.  
  
Away. Get away.  
  
A screen on the ship's computer beeped dangerously, flashing red and yellow lights as the Swordfish II pushed its limits against the thick inky blackness that was space. He ignored the warnings and urged his ship faster, faster, faster!  
  
Memories flashed before his russet eyes, broken fragments of a dream, he fought to escape them. Nevertheless, no matter how fast he fled he could never outrun her. Her sorrowful smile would always linger. There was never enough speed to elude the past. Who exactly was he running from again?  
  
The jets blared furiously, the ship's entire frame shaking violently as the beeping became more frantic.  
  
Away. . .  
  
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!  
  
Get away. . .  
  
BEEP-BEEP-BEEPBEEPBEEP! The angry staccato sang so rapidly it became a shrieking buzz, screaming for its pilot to release.  
  
Get away. . .  
  
BEEEEEEEEEEEE--  
  
Without warning the alarm stopped, allowing Spike to hear the ominous boom that signified he had blown something up in his haste. The ship slowed to barely a crawl, the interior lights in the cockpit flickering dimly as the MONO-racer's systems automatically shut down. The acrid scent of smoke filled the cockpit, not the sweet fragrance associated with cigarettes, but the stale odor of charred equipment.  
  
At least it didn't smell like blood anymore.  
  
"Shit!" Spike cursed, slamming a gloved hand forcefully into the ship's console, causing the lights to flicker again. "Goddamn it!"  
  
The hum of machinery resonated softly as the screen flickered under his curled fist, the Swordfish struggling to stay in flight. It inched along jerkily, coasting for a few moments before pausing abruptly, then assuming a rather chaotic pace. Stop. Start. Stop. Start.  
  
It was like a bird trying to fly with a broken wing.  
  
"Just perfect. . ." The man rubbed his eyes in frustration, leaning back from his formerly hunched position and feeling the cramped muscles in his back stretch uncomfortably.  
  
Tapping a screen on the ship's computer to reveal the impairment, he assessed the damage: he had completely blown out one of the jets, the nuclear fusion aero spike was badly damaged, and the ship's booster nozzle was dangerously overheated. All in all, not bad, considering he had been traveling at break-neck speeds that should have stripped the Swordfish apart.  
  
Still, it was beyond his minimal skill to repair, and he was stuck with a barely operational ship in the middle of space somewhere between Mars and Earth. He'd have to land, else be stranded in the middle of the cosmos. Trapped, he couldn't hide. And the last thing he wanted was to be found.  
  
No, he had to keep going.  
  
It was a four-day trip to the nearest planet, and by the way the Swordfish was flying he would need a shit load of luck to even enter the planet's atmosphere. Gravity would surely rip the MONO-racer to pieces.  
  
In short, he was utterly screwed.  
  
Damn it.  
  
"Of course, they couldn't make it easy for me, could they?" he mused, not quite sure who 'they' referred to but not really caring either way.  
  
Spike patted the ship's console almost apologetically, his hands finding their way to the steering mechanisms and gently coaxing the ship from its erratic course.  
  
"Well, looks like we're going to Earth, huh, baby?"  
  
The ship glided along tentatively for the next four days, a black column of smoke trailing idly from its left wing and leaving behind a dark string of clouds as it limped through the vacuum of space.  
  
Through the tinted window of the cockpit, Spike could see the shape of Earth become more defined from the winking stars as he approached it, coming into focus of the forgotten planet.  
  
Equipped with a thinning belt of asteroids-- pieces of its broken moon caught in orbit, the once green planet revolved forebodingly, its surface riddled with craters from frequent asteroid showers. Where magnificent cities had stood, there were now slummy ruins, dirty and gritty and riddled with devastation.  
  
Few dared brave the vulnerable Earth, and those who did resided mostly in underground cities, away from the falling stars. It would take an idiot to leave something important out in the open, where one fell rock could destroy it in the blink of an eye.  
  
Most of Earth's residents were hackers, using the secluded expanse of Earth to hide in while they sharpened their skills. Others were oldsters and their families, unable to afford leaving the desecrated planet.  
  
Virtually abandoned since The Gate Incident, Earth had become a lackluster plot of rocks and water without much purpose. It revolved aimlessly despite its disregard, its wrecked moon hovering close by almost obediently at the edge of its orbit.  
  
The Swordfish stuttered along, coming closer and closer until the mass of blue and brown became more defined. Continents could be distinguished from the swirling masses of ocean; a few craters could even be seen if one looked hard enough. It certainly wasn't much to look at, but it was a comforting sight to a man whose ship was busted up.  
  
The MONO-racer gave another sudden lurch before entering the Earth's asteroid-ridden atmosphere, the darkness of space abruptly giving way to a cluttered blue sky. Spike leaned into the controls, trying desperately to keep the ship from spiraling dangerously towards the planet's vacant surface. The ship fought with him, its sleek form twisting jerkily as it nose-dived towards the ground.  
  
Meteors flew at him in dangerous clutters, forcing him to spin and swerve to avoid a collision.  
  
The grips of gravity quickly took hold of the Swordfish and pulled it closer and faster, bringing the heavy metal mass hurtling down on the boarder of Spike's control. Wind whistled around the ship's body, friction of air against the hull heating the exterior as it plummeted from a lightening sky. Ladies and gentlemen, the laws of physics at work.  
  
The man growled through gritted teeth as he wrestled with the ship's momentum, yanking on the controls so that the Swordfish's slender nose jerked upwards. The ground was quickly coming into focus, much faster than Spike was comfortable with; the dusty soil looked anything but soft and spongy.  
  
"C'mon!" Spike snarled as the MONO-racer fought to keep a strait course.  
  
The ship curved elegantly, hastily extending a pair of wheels to catch the uneven terrain of a huge plain. It bounced and rattled hazardously over the earth, struggling to keep from rolling over on its side.  
  
The controls vibrated under Spike's clenched fists as he battled to keep the ship upright, his face grim with determination as the ancient ship grappled with an ancient planet.  
  
Finally, the ship was firmly set enough on the rutted ground to deploy the breaks, bringing the runaway racer to a skidding stop. It spun in a wide circle, breaks squealing against the worn tires, kicking up clouds of fine dust into the atmosphere as it sought to decelerate.  
  
When the sand settled, the Swordfish had come to a complete stop, its over- heated engines releasing plumes of inauspicious smoke.  
  
Fuck physics. It was boring anyways.  
  
Fine sand had barely dusted the faded-red frame before the windshield folded back to allow fresh air into the cockpit, bringing with it foreign odors from the ancient planet. It quickly dispersed the thick burning fragrance and the stench of death, replacing it with a deep earthy scent, the smell of dirt and water.  
  
A breeze whipped by the cockpit, showering it briefly with grainy sand and the scent of rain. The weather on Mars was never unpredictable. In fact, people could actually control the weather over certain cities now days. Damn Earth weather.  
  
Rain, asteroids, crazed computer hackers and crotchety old folk.  
  
It was like everyone always said: Nothing good comes from Earth.  
  
Swinging himself gracefully from the slightly cramped confines of the cockpit, Spike leaped fluidly to the ground, his blue boots stamping the earth with a thump and bringing up a small breath of dust from beneath them.  
  
Immediately he grimaced as the movement jolted a bullet wound in his left thigh. Looking down, he took the opportunity to study himself, finding his clothes blood spattered and his body with several new holes. None of which he couldn't handle, of course.  
  
Once out in the open, the man felt a slight heavier than he had on Mars, perhaps from the difference in gravity, but more likely from the bloody crucifix borne on his shoulders. That damn wounded cross.  
  
He stripped off his bloodstained trench coat and tossed it over the wing of the Swordfish, as if losing the bullet-riddled jacket would lighten the weight he felt all over his thin body. The trench coat billowed forlornly in the slight Earth breeze.  
  
He felt like collapsing, felt he already had collapsed; his entire universe had already imploded upon itself. Everything he had grown accustomed to was gone. He had died and was no longer himself. But then, who was he at present?  
  
What the hell was he supposed to do now? Syndicate goons would be searching the whole damn galaxy for a cadaver identified as Spike Spiegel. And when they found none, they would know. *He* would know.  
  
And he would pursue him like a stealthy beast would stalk its hapless prey, driven by a lust for blood and revenge. He'd never leave him be until it was over, and neither could fight anymore.  
  
And he would attack her, too. They would both pay for their so-called sins, condemned from both heaven and hell and trapped in a torturous limbo where everything dear shattered under their fingertips.  
  
What was that he used to call him? Oh yes, an angel forced from heaven. All fallen angels become demons, so they said. He was a reluctant devil, but no more. He didn't want to be a monster anymore.  
  
She was an angel, an untouchable angel. Beautiful, but tragically tainted. She would never be a monster. . .  
  
What now? All that was gone now.  
  
Spike shook his head and ran a hand through his unruly vermilion curls in frustration. Digging into his pockets, he found a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Bringing a nicotine to his lips and lighting up, he took a comforting drag.  
  
What he really wanted was alcohol, to drown in, to kill his brain so that he wouldn't be stuck with those heart-shattering memories. . . but being stuck in the middle of nowhere without a drop of liquor in sight, he had to settle for quenching the former craving instead.  
  
Hands thrust idly into his pockets and a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, Spike paced the ground beside the MONO-racer, absently scuffing the ground with his boots as he brooded silently.  
  
He was being hunted by the devil himself. She was gone with a flash of wings. He was marooned on Earth. He couldn't even search for her.  
  
He missed her already. The thought of never seeing her again made him miserable, he had to find her.  
  
Yeah, that's it! He'd find her, bring her back. They could be happy and safe and never have to worry. . . he could tell her all of the things he should have told her earlier. A small bubble of hope welled inside him.  
  
What the hell was he waiting for?  
  
Spike started back towards the Swordfish, with its smoking wing.  
  
The bubble popped. Damn.  
  
What he needed was someone to fix his ship. A ghost of a bitter smirk broke his pensive façade. Not many had the equipment to fix an old racer like the Swordfish II. In fact, he only knew one mechanic with the experience and knowledge to fix old ships. A man conveniently located on the forgotten planet Earth.  
  
Go figure.  
  
Without a second thought he produced a worn communicator from inside his jacket, tossing it deftly from hand to hand before dialing. The tan face of an aging man appeared on the tiny screen at the top of the comm., his grating voice growling over the crackle of static.  
  
"Yeah, what do you want? I'm busy right now, so you'll just have to-"  
  
"Doohan-it's Spike. I need a ride."  
  
There was a pause as the face on the screen blanched. "That's impossible! You sick, lying bastard, what the fuck are you trying to pull?"  
  
"Why, whatever do you mean?" Spike drawled as he cocked an eyebrow at the screen.  
  
"You can't be Spike," the gruff voice spat.  
  
"And why's that?"  
  
"Spike Spiegel died four days ago." 


	2. Baby Blue

*~A/N~*. . . Okay, let me just state once and for all that this is NOT-- I repeat, NOT a Spike X Original Character. In fact, this fic isn't even a romance. I understand the annoyance of Mary Sue characters, but the story wasn't flowing with just Spike and Doohan chapter after chapter. So, just to clear up any confusion, there is NO romance between anyone other than Spike and Julia in this lovely little tale. Go ahead and use/abuse my characters if you find the need to, considering I'd be a hypocrite if I told you not to.  
  
P.S. Review, please. I enjoy knowing what you think.  
  
*~DISCLAIMER~*. . . Cowboy Bebop. Not mine.  
  
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Baby Blue  
  
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If there was one thing Spike hated, it was waiting. It left too much out in the open, allowed the mind to wander too far.  
  
He lay in the shade beneath the Swordfish's undamaged wing, sprawled lazily with his arms cocked at his neck and his long fingers laced behind his head. The last of his cigarettes smoldered idly, balancing precariously on his lips; his eyes were closed.  
  
He fought hard to keep his mind on other things, random things: fish, peking duck, pondweed. . . but eventually all strings led to the same seam before they came unraveled.  
  
Julia.  
  
His thoughts wound themselves around her, her very essence. Every fiber of his being ached at the memory of her smile, her eyes, her kisses, her cooking, the way her hair felt like liquid silk between his fingers, the way she smelled like incense and jasmine when they embraced. . .  
  
Never before had he felt a physical longing for her presence so strongly before. He felt so very frail, so heavy at the same time --like bricks on a brittle table-- eventually the legs would give and the tower would collapse.  
  
He couldn't bring himself to believe that she abandoned him. Spike had never believed in soulmates, but something about he and Julia, they just fit. Soulmates-- they were meant for each other, there was no way she would leave him if their love were meant to be.  
  
His mind sought other refuge. However, every single excuse he thought up for her was tragically flawed. There came a point when he could not deny it, and he felt angry.  
  
She'd hurt him, broken his heart, all because she was scared. She feared her lover's wrath more than she loved Spike.  
  
She was a coward. . .  
  
Spike sighed.  
  
No, she was no coward. She was simply terrified.  
  
She made Spike feel alive for the first time, made him give a damn about things, and it was a wonderful feeling to want to live. He *wanted* to live. For once, there was something worth living for. Julia.  
  
She had always loved life. The thought of loosing the vibrant feeling she gave him made his heart clench painfully in his chest; no wonder she was frightened.  
  
Funny, unlike her, he didn't feel remorseful about what they had done. Had they really done anything wrong?  
  
It made no sense. His brother in arms, his best friend, when had he become the holder of Cerberus's chain? He trusted him with his life, with more than that-with Julia's life. He couldn't remember when he had begun to hate him, but inevitably it happened.  
  
She feared him. Everyone feared him. His very name caused the most hardened gangsters to cringe and grip their weapons in horror. But she, unlike the other slaves to the syndicate, was eternally damned, chained to the devil; and no matter how he tried Spike could not set her free.  
  
Her words echoed in his mind, agonizingly clear.  
  
//~'We can't. . . it's not right, we can't. He'll find out, Spike, he'll *know*.'~//  
  
Blowing smoke from his nose, Spike opened his eyes to stare absently at the underside of the ship's wing. Everything was empty. Broken. Gone.  
  
He was dead on Mars. Perhaps he was dead here, too?  
  
Faintly, the ground began to tremble beneath him and a quiet rumbling carried across the Earth, catching him off guard. Lazily turning his head to the side to face the horizon, Spike watched through a smoky haze at the billow of dust forming in the distance. The rumbling grew louder as the thing neared.  
  
"Finally. . ." Spike grouched around his cigarette as he rolled out from the cool shadow of the ship's right wing, not bothering to brush the powdery dust off his pants and jacket.  
  
Lacing his fingers together he stretched his arms over his head, enjoying the relaxing pull of muscles before casually thrusting his hands into his pockets.  
  
The oncoming vehicle roared and thundered as it plowed over the Earth's bumpy terrain, shaking the ground with its immense weight. Soon, it came close enough to make out its shape; an ancient, enormous truck slightly distorted as it climbed the horizon. Spike recognized it immediately-- no one in their right mind would drive that monstrosity of a relic-- though he had no doubts beforehand.  
  
Gathering his bloodied coat from the wing of the Swordfish and slinging it over his shoulder, Spike sauntered out to meet the massive automobile, carefully masking a limp. The truck refused to slow as it approached, and instead swerved recklessly to the side, spraying the man with dry dirt and dust.  
  
Unfazed, Spike watched the vehicle slow and stop a short distance away, brushing off his cornflower-blue suit and continuing his advance. There was muffled grumbling from the driver's side of the truck, the metallic 'clank' of a wrench slamming itself into the steering wheel and more growling from the driver. Spike sighed knowingly.  
  
He clambered up the side of the truck and slid open the door to meet the stern gaze of the old grizzled man, his fingerless gloves gripping the worn steering wheel tersely and his thin lips pulled into a taught line.  
  
Spike took a drag from his cigarette abstractedly. "You're late."  
  
"Yeah. Hurry up and load the 'Fish. I've got more important things to do than pick up hitch-hiking ghosts."  
  
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Once the MONO-racer was loaded and secured in the back of the mammoth truck, Doohan hit the gas hard. In the passenger seat, Spike leaned towards the open window, watching the desert of Earth whisk by in a blur as the truck jounced along its craters. Cool air blasted his face and blew his hair from his eyes, gently caressing his weary body and stroking his skin with soft fingers.  
  
The inside of the truck was comfortably cluttered, the dashboard scratched and coated with a thin layer of dirt and mountains of random knick-knacks. There were a few pictures tapped above the radio, yellowed and frayed with age but the smiling faces still recognizable.  
  
They were Doohan's trademark, his love for photography-- mind you, he was no real artist, but the pictures all had emotional value that could be clearly evaluated in the people posing in front of the camera.  
  
Wordlessly, Spike shifted in his seat, his long legs shuffling in the papers and magazines that crowded him. The floor was littered with strange odds and ends; at one point he was sure his foot hit something living --or once living-- while he was resituating himself.  
  
Doohan watched his passenger carefully from the corner of his eye, not missing the blood and scent of gunpowder on his clothes, nor the anguish in his guileless eyes, the forced apathy in his slight movements. The man looked as if he were about to fall apart, as if a single breath could cause him to crumble like dust and scatter in the breeze. This wasn't the brazen, hotheaded rascal he knew Spike Spiegel to be.  
  
Perhaps Spike Spiegel really was dead.  
  
News traveled fast despite the huge expanse of space. His recorded murder on Mars was no small talk among the syndicates. Besides, Spike was a friend, almost a son. And Doohan had ears everywhere.  
  
When he had heard, he was shocked-- the unbeatable Spike Spiegel, dead? It just didn't seem possible. . . but after a few days, it started to work its way through his head, and a voice kept telling him 'it was bound to happen sooner or later.' Syndicate members rarely stay on top for long.  
  
But here he was, a walking contradiction.  
  
Uncomfortable in the thick silence that hovered over the front seats, the said ghost leaned forward to play with the dials of the truck's archaic radio. He leaped back in surprise as it immediately began furiously blaring rock music, nearly deafening him and causing Doohan to release the wheel to cover his ears.  
  
The truck swerved haphazardly to the tune of Nirvana's 'Territorial Pissings,' electric guitars wailing and the lead male vocalist screaming out the lyrics at the top of his lungs. Spike grimaced and fumbled with the console, only succeeding in further raising the volume.  
  
The truck bucked violently.  
  
Cursing a blue streak and hitting the edge of his patience, Spike lashed out at the radio, his boot striking the primeval thing several times with surprising force. The music stuttered and died, leaving only the blessedly soft growl of the truck's engine.  
  
Shaking his head and glaring at the smoking remains of the radio, Spike adopted a nonchalant tone as he spoke. "What the hell was that?"  
  
Doohan, once again in control of the massive automobile, glanced up at Spike with a frown before replying. "My assistant drives this thing to pick up the parts I need. Plays with the radio, see?"  
  
"Another one?" Spike sighed and looked out the window. "What happened to the last one? The pothead that only listened to hippie music?"  
  
"Apparently I'm 'too oppressive, man'."  
  
"You don't say."  
  
"Yeah." Doohan mumbled distractedly, his eyes locked on the land ahead. "Anyways, this new one is a bona fide upstart. Real thick. . ."  
  
"Is that so?" Spike drawled, taking a meditative drag from his cigarette.  
  
". . . Just like some other people I could mention," Doohan shot Spike a level glare. "Good kid, though. Crafty little urchin, I'll tell you that."  
  
"I see." Leaning out the window, Spike rested his chin in his hand to indicate that he was not in the mood for idle chitchat. An awkwardly thick silence filled the space between them, broken only by the growl of the engine and the clanking of the MONO-racer in the back whenever the truck hit a bump.  
  
Morbid curiosity chewed at Doohan as he watched Spike from the corner of his eye, something was definitely off with the boy. Spike Spiegel was a carefree, happy man, more of an overgrown child, actually. The thing that really bothered the mechanic was the fact that since Spike had called him up until this very moment, the man had never smiled. Not once. Not even a smirk.  
  
That in itself was a morose oddity.  
  
But the old man knew better than to ask, because Spike wasn't one to give a strait answer, if he gave an answer at all.  
  
Whatever was on his mind must have been a touchy subject, probably had some kind of connection to his 'death', and Doohan silently decided it was something he simply did not want to know.  
  
The older man hummed thoughtfully to himself, averting his eyes back to the open plain in front of him. Spike ignored him placidly.  
  
Luckily for them both, it wasn't long before the dark outline of the junkyard could be spotted on the flat desert horizon. Blurred shadows of various old aircrafts distorted by the rising heat dotted the scope as the truck roved closer, jostling the MONO-racer every time it passed over a bump.  
  
A small building housed an indistinguishable mess of wires and metal and was smoking ominously, and as the vehicle neared distinct cursing could be heard over the crackle of fire from inside the building. Doohan hastily parked the truck and leaped out, leaning a hand against a gigantic tire and pulling his grizzled face into a scowl, revealing a row of crooked teeth.  
  
Spike followed him, standing on the opposite side of the truck and jamming his hands into his pockets; watching the gray columns of smoke fight for freedom from the building with an air of indifference.  
  
"Jesus, can't I leave you alone for THREE MINUTES without you blowing something up?" Doohan shouted towards the hanger.  
  
There was a resonant clang and more snarls from inside. Various tools were flung out the large bay doors, obviously with the intent to injure but falling short of the truck.  
  
"It wasn't my fault, you old crone!" a discordant voice spat indignantly from the hanger. "The fuel injector on this hunk of shit backfired!"  
  
Feigning boredom, Spike watched halfheartedly at the figure stumbling out of the smoke riddled building, catching brief snatches of Doohan's berating. The shadow slowly came into the blazing desert sun, their features coming into focus and causing Spike to blink in mild surprise.  
  
Doohan's assistant was a woman.  
  
Fucking wonderful.  
  
Immediately Spike felt a surge inside him, a heated pain rising in his chest. Anger, maybe. Antagonism towards this woman for reasons he couldn't fathom. He could feel the muscles knot under his jacket, tensing as he warily surveyed Doohan's new apprentice.  
  
He simply didn't have the patience for females right now.  
  
She was a young thing-- couldn't have been older than twenty, short but not stocky, with thick raven hair that cascaded to her waist. Her face was plain and streaked with grease smudges and ash; hanging loosely around her waist was a worn leather tool belt.  
  
"I said DON'T put the silencer on, you goblin!" Doohan growled at her.  
  
She pulled a face. "I wouldn't have if you hadn't left it out!"  
  
"It was packed away!"  
  
"In a box of parts right underfoot!"  
  
"Bah!"  
  
"Oh, 'bah' yourself!"  
  
Spike watched the banter with a bemused expression, the young woman obviously refusing to take the blame for the mishap and the old man obviously refusing to let it go.  
  
"Wench, you're some piece of work. . ." Spike murmured, letting his gaze wander back to the still-smoking hanger. All women were evil, sent to make the universe a living Hell for all those unfortunate enough to be blessed with a Y-chromosome.  
  
This small insinuation caught the attention of the aforementioned spawn of Satan, and her eyes raked his slouched form icily.  
  
"Who's the string bean?" she asked, one hand resting coyly on her hip and her head cocked to the side.  
  
Doohan folded his arms across his chest. "Spike, meet Kerrian."  
  
"Yo." Spike's gaze was unmistakably patronizing.  
  
Her glare was enough to crack ceiling tiles, but it had no effect on the aloof Spike. Taking advantage of the brief (and rare) moment when the woman was not shouting, Doohan barked out his orders.  
  
"Kerrian, unload the Swordfish from the truck, an' be careful with it. Then gimme the EV Transmitter, the absorber for the main gear and the three-eight pneumatic tube."  
  
The woman 'hmphed' and glowered, stubbornly holding her ground.  
  
"Well, someone's got a stick up their ass, eh?" Spike spoke to no one in particular, his words laced with sarcasm and malevolence.  
  
Grumbling and favoring Spike with a rather inappropriate hand gesture, the young woman trudged back into the smoking hanger, uttering curses under her breath. Doohan watched her go, his thin lips curling into a crooked smile as he shook his head tiredly.  
  
"You sure got a way with women, don't you, Spike?"  
  
"What can I say? I'm a real charmer."  
  
"Hah." Doohan watched as the bleached-red MONO-racer cautiously slid down the ramp and off the truck. It gave a sudden jolt as it hit the Earth, its worn gears groaning in protest of the manhandling. Spike winced at the sound, but Doohan was exasperated.  
  
"Damn it, I said be careful!"  
  
"Fuck you!" was the heated reply.  
  
Spike shook his head and patted the older man on the back sympathetically. "You're a brave soul to hire such a high-strung wench, Doohan. A brave soul."  
  
"I blame it on momentary insanity and lack of judgment."  
  
Spike nodded, a ghost of a smirk touching the corners of his lips. Snapping back to the task at hand, Doohan clapped his hands together and approached the newly emerged Swordfish II, grinning fondly at the sight of his old ship.  
  
"Now, down to business. Kerrian, where's the clipboard?"  
  
The woman climbed out from beneath the ship's left wing and wiped her ash-covered hands on her jeans. "It's pinned to the Swordfish's damaged wing."  
  
Doohan stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully as he studied the MONO-racer's injury with veteran eyes. Spike observed the older man curiously, gauging his hardened facial expressions inquisitively. The changes were slight and hard to read, but from all the years they had know each other Spike had learned the old man was as guarded as he himself was.  
  
"You've been abusing her," Doohan stated musingly.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
The graying man shook his head and placed a callused hand on the Swordfish's metal hull. "As much as you refuse to believe it, the 'Fish has her limits."  
  
"I'm not one for delicate controls." Spike shrugged lazily.  
  
Doohan snorted. "Huh, no kidding. She looks like she's been through hell and back."  
  
He trailed off, staring pensively into old memories, oblivious to Kerrian's attempts to grab his attention.  
  
"Hey! Hey, you codger!" Kerrian impatiently waved a hand in front of the older man's eyes, catching him off guard and breaking his train of thought. "I'm takin' my break now. I'll be back late, don't wait up."  
  
Without waiting for further permission, the woman unbuckled her tool belt and slung it over Doohan's shoulder before sprinting off towards the hanger. The mechanic growled in annoyance, curtly brushing off the heavily equipped belt and allowing it to hit the ground with a dry 'thud'.  
  
"Like I said before: momentary insanity and lack of judgment."  
  
Spike nodded mutely, watching the woman disappear behind the bay doors. She was certainly an aggravating bitch if he ever saw one. Julia was never so hot-tempered. Or rude. Or foul-mouthed. Or bitchy.  
  
It was a woman's kind of irascibleness that especially grated his nerves; he really hadn't intended to be so rude to the kid, but the way she spoke and the air she carried herself with aggravated him to no ends.  
  
She was a prime example of why Spike hated women with attitudes.  
  
There was a succession of several rather loud crashes and a string of curses from inside the hanger, just before a sleek hover-cycle burst from through the bay doors. Faintly Spike could make out a wave of Kerrian's long raven hair, waving out behind her like a flag as the motorcycle-like vehicle cut across the desert and sped away, leaving behind only a trail of rising dust in its wake.  
  
Doohan was livid.  
  
"Christ, you idiot female!" Doohan ranted, stamping the ground in a furious dance. "You gotta take the other ships out first! You don't just ride through and hope to AVOID them, imbecile!"  
  
Spike sighed.  
  
Satan must be a woman. 


	3. Up A Lazy River

*A/N*-- Felt like plugging another chapter before I head out to band-camp *Ignores the multitude of band-camp puns that come rolling through* Also, thanks to all my wonderful reviewers: Kyra, liquidiamond, Lady Razorship, and Plutonian, you guys rock my socks.  
  
*DISCLAIMER*: No. Cowboy Bebop, it's mine. And you can't use it. Just me. Really.   
  
************************************************************************  
  
Up A Lazy River  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Spike cursed himself, stripping off another layer of clothing. Damn him for forgetting that Earth's deserts were unbearably hot.   
  
Lately, it had been warm enough to fry an egg on your tongue if you left it there long enough. The sun beat down lazily and unforgiving upon the poor heads of the desert dwellers; pair that with intolerable humidity and you have one hell of a sauna. The air shimmered and stuck thick in everyone's lungs, creating a lethargic atmosphere in the junkyard.  
  
It was too hot for Spike to smoke, it was too hot for Doohan to make demands, hell, it was even too hot for Kerrian to shout- heat absorbed into their already tired muscles and made every little move quite an effort, and so all movement became sluggish around Doohan's hanger.   
  
He had been sulking in his borrowed room for three days, both the mechanic and his assistance taking pains to avoid him. Smart of them, too, he hadn't really been prepared to face the world quite yet.   
  
Spike had washed himself clean of the blood and gunpowder, but the stench clung stubbornly to his skin. He had dressed the wounds he'd obtained staging his 'death', but they ached dully with each tortured movement-- a constant reminder.  
  
The man didn't have any money for beer, so drinking himself into the ground until he felt better was out of the question (damn it).   
  
He found himself brooding sullenly, too plagued by agonizing memories to actually sleep, his offbeat internal rhythms felt by everyone. He was unbalanced, unaligned, a broken man, coming out of his room only to eat and check on progress with the Swordfish.  
  
And even that wasn't looking good.  
  
If there was a God or whatever sort of superior universal being somewhere out there, they seemed firmly set on complete and utter damnation for one, Spike Spiegel. Either that or they had a completely sick and twisted sense of humor.  
  
"You completely lost a jet, kid," Doohan had growled. Everything Doohan said was said in the form of a growl; his voice coarse and gravelly from cigarettes and inhaling exhaust from his beloved antiques. "The jet is completely shot, blown to bits, not to mention the acceleration pumps are all worn down. . ."  
  
Doohan explained that repairs would be vastly expensive, not including the new parts needed to get the ship to fly again. Hah. In fact, parts were a different matter entirely.  
  
"The Swordfish II was built up from an old thing, Spike, m' boy, barely any working components are in circulation now; they've long past stopped making them."  
  
In fact, parts that were compatible to the MONO-racer's system were so rare that even Doohan's suppliers didn't have them. A few confessed they knew where he could obtain the desired components, but the would be unfeasibly costly, thus their one huge problem:  
  
Spike was very, very broke.  
  
Now, dressed in proper Earth attire --a white undershirt and a pair of sweatpants-- Spike headed out to the hanger once again, hoping to hear good news about the minor repairs being completed on the Swordfish. Once outside he was slammed with a wall of heat, and even his lighter clothes felt uncomfortably suffocating.  
  
The hanger was cooler, but not by much; a cheap rotating fan circulated the hot air in a pathetic attempt to lower the temperature in the building, but succeeding only in blowing hot air into the face of the cantankerous mechanics.   
  
"How's it going?" Spike addressed the pair of legs protruding from beneath the dismantled MONO-racer.   
  
"How'd you manage to fuck this thing up so badly?" the legs responded tiredly.   
  
The muscular limbs withdrew to allow their owner to wriggle out from below the ship. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of a dirty hand, Kerrian leaned her back against one of the racer's wheels, looking disheveled and exhausted.  
  
"Y' know, kid," Spike frowned irritably, "I'd rather you have Doohan coaching you when you're working on my ship."  
  
The woman growled, equally annoyed. "I didn't ask for your opinion, asshole. If you want your God damn ship fixed this millennium, you'll let me work on it when the old man's out."  
  
"You're doing a piss-poor job by yourself."  
  
"What the fuck do you know?"  
  
"Well, tell me then, is it fixed now that you've had your time with it?" Spike asked matter-of-factly, satisfied with winning the argument.   
  
Kerrian sighed, dropping the issue. It was just too damn miserable. Just too damn hot.  
  
Spike almost pitied the woman.   
  
Her thick raven hair was piled on top of her head to keep the heavy strands off her neck, and Spike wondered how the tiny woman could even hold her head up what with the mountains of hair weighing her down and throwing her off balance. Stray strands stuck to her neck and cheeks, limp from the humidity.  
  
She was wrapped in as little material as possible while still trying to keep her dignity --a sports bra and cut-off jeans-- but the exposed skin quickly tanned and became slicked with engine grease and sweat.   
  
He leaned against the far wall of the hanger, grimacing when the lukewarm metal stuck to his damp skin. Damn sun. It heated the hanger like an oven. Kerrian watched him for a moment from under hooded lids, as she had for the past few days, timidly curious but too frustrated with the man to say anything.   
  
Doohan had told her only the most pertinent meager details about Spike, but from what she had observed the man was shady. Carefully guarded but obviously in a depressing funk. His thin face was always blank, when he wasn't sneering or snarling, and it was no secret that he hadn't slept in days; the dark rings beneath his eyes told of the restless insomnia he suffered.  
  
It also appeared as if he had a thing against women. It seemed he went out of his way to be especially nasty to her, not that his was a winning personality to begin with, and she of course returned the favor.   
  
"You're pathetic, you know that?" she mumbled tetchily. "At least I'm working."  
  
  
  
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Spike inquired with a bored expression.   
  
"Instead of sitting on your ass all day thinking about God-knows-what, why don't you do us all a favor and make some money so you can get the fuck out of here? You're a lump. An irritating bastard of a lump."   
  
Spike sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. His tone was belittling again, though lacking its usual snappy venom. "In case you haven't noticed, genius, there aren't exactly a lot of jobs to choose from. Being stuck on Earth kind of narrows my options."  
  
"Hmph." She didn't rise to the bait. "It just depends on what you're looking for, I'm sure the senile old cod would lend you a ship if you needed travel. He likes you, though I haven't the slightest idea see why."  
  
"What? My personality not befitting to you?"  
  
"You're a dick," she spat idly. "You need work or else you'll never leave and then I'll end up going insane and killing you or something."  
  
Where was Doohan? Out the one time she needed him there. Go figure. The old man had become some kind of un-appointed referee, breaking up their quarrels before they got out of hand and someone died. Poor soul.  
  
The woman paused to stretch and yawn, the heat sapping what little energy she still possessed. Sighing in fatigue she cast Spike a tired side glance before continuing. "What the hell did you do for the past ten years that kept you alive, anyways?"  
  
"I killed people," Spike said simply.   
  
Silence.  
  
Kerrian's head snapped up in shock, sizing up the lanky man for the umpteenth time, pondering whether he spoke the truth. The calm look on his face, his wiry frame and willowy limbs belied his words, but there was something about him; it was his eyes.   
  
They were deathly serious, tired russet eyes. They were closed of everything else, but that killer's air, that dark aura, that past pain could not be concealed.   
  
The man could not have been lying.  
  
Kerrian gulped nervously. Where the Hell was the old man?  
  
"I see." She refused to meet his gaze, tensely looking at the ground. "Were you some kind of assassin or something? A hit-man? Gangster?"  
  
Spike gave a humorless chuckle. "You could say that."  
  
Kerrian paused to think, scrubbing an oil stain on her palm absently. He was making her uncomfortable. She had thought Spike Spiegel was shifty beforehand-- this new knowledge of his former profession didn't exactly set her mind at ease.   
  
She fidgeted impatiently. "Y' know, bounty hunters can make a decent Woolong now days."  
  
"Bounty hunters?"  
  
"Yeah, where've you been for the past thirty years?" the woman sneered. "ISSP couldn't control crime anymore, too many criminals, too much space, not enough men. So they reinstated bounties, let bounty hunters to do the dirty work: catching the criminals and haulin' them in."  
  
Spike had already known this --having run into a few hotheaded bounty hunters after especially violent or high-ranking Syndicate members-- but he found himself feeling particularly generous and decided to let Kerrian have her say.   
  
Her speech finished, the woman returned to a state of semi-consciousness,   
  
Bounty hunter. He tossed the idea around for a moment; it seemed simple enough. Knock 'em out, drag 'em in, then collect considerable compensation for your efforts. Not a bad deal, actually. They made adequate use of his skills, and with his marksmanship and a little bit of luck, he'd be on his way in no time.  
  
"Damn it." the woman's irate voice startled him back to reality. "Tell the old fucker I'm not waiting anymore. I've got places to be, he'll know where."  
  
Spike smirked. "I hope you don't plan on coming back any time soon. . ."   
  
Kerrian grumbled under her breath and tilted her head, closing her eyes for a moment before lazily pulling herself from the ground, leaving in search of her hover-cycle. In no time at all, she was speeding away on the sleek bike, leaving Spike alone with his thoughts.   
  
He watched go, wondering briefly just where she was heading. Then, just as briefly, he decided that he didn't care and shifted against the wall to stare forlornly at the cluttered sky, towards Mars.   
  
If it wasn't Julia he missed, it was Mars itself. Mars wasn't historic like Titan or beautiful like Ganymede or legendary like Earth, but its skies were endlessly blue, and even when it rained they remained open.   
  
Killer or no, Spike Spiegel got homesick.  
  
With an inaudible sigh, he left the hanger, hands thrust casually into his pockets. He headed towards the main lodging building, a small cement block with a tin roof off to the side of the junkyard, hoping that it would be just a tad bit cooler inside the building and out of the sun.  
  
His hopes were quickly dashed however as he opened the door and stepped inside-- if it were possible, it felt more humid inside than out. Goddamn fucking Earth weather!  
  
The heat seemed to add at least ten pounds to his shoulders as he headed aimlessly down one hallway, then another, in search of a cool spot to sit. He entered several rooms, none of which looked particularly interesting, inspecting different odds and ends left out in the open before leaving.  
  
He noted that Kerrian was a big fan of Rock music by the posters she had plastered over her walls. She was disorganized, too, with her music discs laying strewn about the floor with her dirty clothes.  
  
As he turned to leave, his eyes caught the bright pastel colors on the back of the door. So, she knew a kid. She knew a kid well enough that that kid would draw her pictures.   
  
There were several messily scrawled drawings on the wall of planes and ships and horribly un-proportionate stick people-- all done in brightly colored crayons and carefully tacked to the inside of her door. Innocent, shaky lettering in yellow crayon on each one implied an artist's signature: 'I LUV U,' and a capital letter 'R'.   
  
'Just 'R'?' he mused. Perhaps the bitch-woman had a younger sibling somewhere.   
  
Sad. He pitied the poor child unfortunate enough to share the same gene pool with the odious wretch. He smirked to himself before exiting, leaving the room just as he found it.  
  
The next room he explored was Doohan's. He expected the place to be a disaster area, cluttered with papers and old ship designs that would never quite make it to completion. He imagined photographs of people he knew, serviced, people close to him. Doohan loved to surround himself with chaotic disorganization.   
  
But to his surprise, the old mechanic's room was painfully plain; the bed sheets rumpled and discarded on the floor, the sun bleached sallow walls strangely empty. All that remained on the walls was the paint, flaking in the humidity. The floor was bare, with the exception of the crumpled bedding; the room seemed close to being perfectly in order.  
  
This in itself was extremely odd, for the irritable old fool was completely disorderly, everything the mechanic had done that Spike had committed to memory had a slapdash feel to it.   
  
The naked walls were also unsettling. The old man had a fascination with old Earthen cameras, the bulky kind that used film instead of discs. Spike had expected to find at least one photo lying around, maybe taped to the wall as brashly as he had taped them to his dashboard.   
  
Spike hummed to himself, running a hand through his hair, which had gone even wilder and unkempt-looking in the humidity.  
  
Unlike the other rooms he had found, Doohan's had two extra doors on opposite walls facing the bed, one of which Spike found to be a small bathroom; the other led to an average-sized office. Upon opening the door, he was met with a small breath of chilled air. Spike sighed happily and opened his arms in relief, welcoming the change in weak blast of cool air like a dying man in the desert would welcome water.   
  
The thin film of sweat on his body quickly froze in the air-conditioned room, and Spike hastily closed the door to keep the deliciously cold air concentrated. He stood stock still, letting the circulating air caress his fevered body and listening to the tremendously ancient air-conditioning unit clank away as it spat out cold air with little fervor.   
  
He couldn't move. It was a rare moment indeed when Spike was able to experience pure, simple bliss. He didn't want to ruin it.   
  
Nearly half an hour later, only when he actually started to get *uncomfortably* cold, Spike took the initiative to look around. The office was unbelievably cluttered, with incomplete repair forms and half-baked ideas for new hybrids of ancient and modern ships, scattered notes and wads of clothing mounting in the corners of the room- clearly this is where Doohan spent most of his time.  
  
There was a desk buried under mountains of paperwork and unrecognizable tools and parts, conveniently located in front of the only window in the room, which held the air-conditioning unit. Lazy afternoon sun poured through the blinds and created bars of yellow over the desk, mimicking the pattern of prison stripes-light, dark, light, dark.   
  
His lips curving into a small frown of curiosity, Spike made his way over to the side of the room and rifled through the forms on the mechanic's desk with one slender hand, the other thrust nonchalantly into his pocket.   
  
There were several, written in Doohan's cramped handwriting, inquiring about the desired parts for the Swordfish. He caught sight of several figures, all with a sizeable amount of zeros behind them; he grimaced and put the forms away.  
  
  
  
He leafed through a few random papers, skimming the contents if something struck his eye, before dropping them unceremoniously on the desk. Nothing tenuously interesting, so Spike let his attention wander.  
  
Lifting his free hand he peeked through the blinds, looking out into the hanger. The doors had been left wide open, and he could see the dismantled MONO-racer from where he stood, looking like it had been stripped, raped, and gutted. It left him with a sense of hopelessness. He'd never get off this God forsaken planet.  
  
Fuck.   
  
He craved a smoke - God, did he ever! -- having gone cold turkey in the scalding weather, but he didn't think he could force himself out of this blessedly cool haven, even for nicotine.   
  
As he moved to occupy the comfortable-looking rolling chair behind the desk, Spike's arm brushed the tack board next to the window, knocking loose a flurry of photos. They fluttered gently to the floor; those that landed face-up stared at him with frozen smiles void of emotion. He blinked, reaching down to retrieve them.  
  
Their faces were happy but empty at the same time, their cheerful energy lost over time as the images began to fade. He carefully seated himself in the vacant chair and held the pictures by their edges to avoid getting fingerprints on the glossy surfaces, studying the fallen photographs with an almost critical air.   
  
There were several of Doohan, standing with a proud grin near his greatest achievements-one of which being the Swordfish II. It was a picture Spike was vaguely familiar with; he had been there the day it was taken. But that was nearly seven years ago. Doohan's face looked much younger then, less grizzled and his eyes missed the jaded glaze to them.  
  
  
  
Spike moved the photo to the back of the pile. The next picture was of a young man looking rather stoned on the wing of an Earth antique, Spike recognized him as the assistant working under Doohan when he had visited him last. He was a gaunt-looking man, a disgruntled look breaking through his marijuana-induced stupor as the camera flashed in his eyes. Spike chuckled dryly before flipping the picture to the end.   
  
He turned to the next picture. . . and saw himself.   
  
He blinked in surprise, bringing the photograph up to his face, so close that it nearly brushed the tip of his nose as he studied it closely. This was the first time in years since he had seen himself on film. It was taken the year he had been given the 'Fish, the year that he had graduated to a top-rank Syndicate member, the year he had met Julia, years and years ago, and taken without his knowledge.   
  
Photograph-Spike was sitting propped up against the MONO-racer's right wheel, a cigarette held loosely between his lips and fingers as he stared pensively at something off in the distance.   
  
God, he looked so *young*. He couldn't look away-- his face wasn't as tired as he remembered it, he looked lighter, happier. His eyes were lacking the haunting images; the picture taken before he had his right eye replaced. A beautiful, foreign face.   
  
This man was a stranger.  
  
"Seven years," a low voice spoke behind him. Spike turned to see Doohan leaning casually against the doorframe, his eyes closed deep in thought. "Seven years since everything started falling apart."  
  
Spike 'hmm'ed in agreement, running his long fingers over the image of his face. "I'm not that man anymore."  
  
"Yeah."   
  
Spike let his gaze linger for a moment on the forgotten face; the young, limber frame slouched with long, lanky legs sprawled haphazardly over the dusty ground. Could he have ever been this man? It was hard to imagine. He stamped it into his memory, not wanting to forget the true carelessness in his real eye, before slowly flipping the photograph to the back.  
  
The image that met him caught him totally off guard. It was different from the rest in the pile-- more relaxed, natural, un-posed. Two young people, a girl held piggyback by a boy with red hair in front of the barren Earth landscape. They looked so happy together, affectionate without fear. Spike found himself growing a tinge jealous.  
  
The girl's long raven hair hung like a curtain around her face, nearly obscuring it from view. He looked closer.   
  
Kerrian, and she was *smiling*. It was an open, honest smile-- a rare sight now days-- her amber eyes closed as her image froze in silent laughter. Like himself, she was almost unrecognizable.   
  
"You shouldn't be so hard on her, Spike," the old mechanic rumbled from the door, catching Spike off guard by knowing exactly which picture he was looking at. "She has it rougher than you know."  
  
Spike refused to look up, resting his elbows on the desk and studying the picture casually. Both kids were younger, probably finishing high school. The boy had a handsome smirk, with crimson bangs that were charmingly disheveled. He held onto Kerrian's legs with ease, leaning into her and holding her weight effortlessly. Spike had never seen Kerrian smile like this; her small smiles were always so weary, so sad-like Julia's.  
  
He flipped the picture over the back, finding an address scrawled hastily in red ink:  
  
St. Andrew's Orphanage  
  
333 Abscond Dr.  
  
Singapore, Earth  
  
"Something's off about you, Spike. You bullshit us and try to act like you don't give a shit, but something's wrong." Doohan turned to leave, his voice breaking into Spike's reverie. The old man spoke in halting tones, hesitant. "It wouldn't kill you to talk about it. I ain't one for words, but if y' need a listener, I'm here, kid."  
  
The sound of the mechanic's footfalls echoed dryly over the buzz of the air-conditioner, fading as he left Spike alone with his thoughts. Talk? Yeah right. Spike wasn't really one for words either. Besides, this wasn't something to be spoken about. Saying it aloud would only make it seem too real, and his dream theory would be obliterated. Like he needed that kind of shit now.  
  
He stood without a word, fanning out the pictures on the desk so he could see each face smiling at him, a timeless audience- before heading out, following Doohan obediently. With one last glance to the empty room, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.  
  
The breath of wind from the closing door gently disturbed the pictures carefully arranged on the desk, sending one of them flickering to the ground with an air of a wounded butterfly. It was the picture of young-Spike, landing facedown beneath the desk. Written across the back in the same red pen and bold lettering was a message he had missed in his inspection of the photograph:  
  
  
  
SPIKE SPEIGEL, AUGUST 2064.  
  
DREAMS ARE FUTILE-- EVENTUALLY YOU WAKE UP. 


End file.
